


don't think twice, it's all right

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Relationship, The Carrock (Tolkien)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 14:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which there is a slice of life after the Carrock.





	don't think twice, it's all right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mimmuszh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimmuszh/gifts).



A brook babbles somewhere below, the churning of the stream a beckoning call.

It means the ground is not so far away now.

“Another ten steps, Bilbo, my lad, there you are.”

Bilbo continues to hug the side of the Carrock, like a lover’s embrace, and refuses to look at anything but his feet as he shuffles along. He knows he’s slowing the company down but no one has rushed him. The dwarves prefer solid ground just as much as Bilbo does and it sounds as if some of them are struggling as much as he is, arguing and breathing heavily as they descend the massive stair.

It’s a bit of a leap off the last step but Bilbo manages it, nearly falling to his knees. He would kiss the ground if it weren’t for present company.

Bofur is next, leaping off the rock and landing with a hard thud. “Mahal wept, the ground!” he cries, falling onto his knees and smacking a wet kiss to the green grass below.

“Move it, Bofur,” Fili says, for he is next, and he looks a bit green around the gills.

The dwarves come down from the Carrock one by one, Thorin Oakenshield second to last, only followed by Dwalin, who refused to let Thorin linger behind.

Bilbo makes a show out of wiping down his jacket, looking at Thorin, hoping his gaze won’t be noticed.

Thorin is walking with a limp, favoring his left side, bruises beginning to bloom along his nose and eyes. He is a sorry sight, as one might expect after being tossed by a warg, and Bilbo feels his breath catch when Dwalin claps his hand on Thorin’s shoulder. He winces but doesn’t offer any reproach, putting on his best dignified face and offering naught but a nod to Dwalin’s implied question.

“We should cover more ground while we have the day ahead of us,” Thorin says, his voice somewhat hoarse.

The dwarves stop what they’re doing, which is making a general list of what belongings survived the goblin tunnels, and gape at Thorin as if he has gone mad.

Thorin scowls. “It is early morning and we have an orc pack on our trail. We must make haste to the mountain.”

“Uncle,” Fili says, sounding strained, “you need to rest before we travel.”

“I am well,” Thorin says briskly. “As are all of you.”

“The lad is right,” Dwalin says, glaring at Thorin as if he has never encountered a sorrier fool in his life. “You won’t make it a mile before you collapse.”

Thorin does a very good job of looking regal at this pronouncement, holding his chin higher and squaring his shoulders. “I am not so injured that I cannot walk. We need to put more distance between ourselves and the orcs.”

The company exchange glances, none seeming too keen on traveling. Ori even goes so far as to sit on a log and clasp his hands together, looking obstinate, which is a marvel in itself to Bilbo. Ori has never gone against anything Thorin has said before and most of the dwarves look impressed, some sitting on boulders and others crossing their arms.

“You would have them gain upon us?” Thorin barks, gesturing somewhere to the west, wincing in pain as he does. He tries to quickly mask it behind an angry twist to his lips.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly, hesitantly stepping closer to the irate king.

It has only been a few hours since Thorin embraced him, filling him with a sense of belonging and home. He can still smell him, pinewood and leather and oil and pipe-weed smoke, something familiar and unique. What has been born between them is new and it feels fragile. Bilbo knows he must choose his words carefully but all at once his exhaustion and fear catches up with him and he hunches his shoulders.

“Thorin, please,” he says. “Please.”

Thorin stares at Bilbo, his features an unyielding mask, until his eyes soften the slightest bit. “Are you unwell, Master Baggins?”

“Not unwell. Only tired, hungry, thirsty and in dire need of rest, like everyone here,” Bilbo says, wincing at how hoarse he himself sounds. “Including you,” he adds in a bit of a mumble but doesn’t lower his gaze from Thorin’s.

They hold each other’s gaze for a time, until Thorin nods, turning away and looking at the company. “We will stop for this one day,” he says, glaring as everyone slumps in relief. “Then we make haste to the mountain. Get as much rest as you can. Fili, firewood. Kili, see if you can find game in these parts, it is well-wooded here. Bombur, I expect you to see to our rations while you have the leisure.”

Bilbo breathes out slowly, his many aches and pains from the last few days catching up with him. Thorin doesn’t assign him a task but he leaves the clearing with Fili to find firewood, carrying as many branches as he can find, while Fili chops apart a dead tree.

The area surrounding the clearing is wooded with pines and firs, moss growing along tree trunks. It smells of sap, something Bilbo has long since gotten used to on the road, but it seems especially sweet now after the rankness that was the goblin tunnels and Gollum’s cave. The stream cuts through the forest and into the clearing at the base of the Carrock, cool and refreshing, and as soon as Bilbo has unloaded his burden of branches, he refills his water skin.

Flowers grow alongside the stream, purple irises and bright water poppies. Bilbo plucks an iris and tucks it into the buttonhole of his jacket on a whim, feeling a little giddy now that he knows he is relatively safe… for now anyway. The purple clashes violently against the red of his jacket but he finds he doesn’t care in the least.

He settles down to rest against a log near the fire that Gloin has started, nodding off occasionally, awoken by the dwarves’ loud conversations. It is not until Kili returns with four coneys that Bilbo sits up properly, his stomach aching with raw hunger after so long without a bite to eat. He watches eagerly as Bombur prepares the rabbits for a hearty stew with mushrooms that Bifur had found while foraging.

“Master Baggins,” a familiar voice says.

Bilbo looks up at Thorin, raising his eyebrows. “Yes?”

Thorin carefully sits next to him on his left, leaning back against the log, with pain written all over his face. “I wish to know how you found your way out of the goblin tunnels.”

Bilbo frowns, watching Thorin. “Have you been given something for the pain?”

“Aye,” Thorin says, frowning back. “And a poultice while you were in the forest with Fili. Never mind that. How?”

“If you must know,” Bilbo says, looking away and back toward the large pot that had somehow survived the trip through Goblin Town. “I was with you lot when they first cornered us but an overeager goblin knocked me off the bridge and I fell quite a ways. I wandered through tunnels, thinking I was to never find my way out again, when suddenly I found the tunnel leading out of the mountain. I caught up to you lot very soon after that.”

Thorin is quiet for a few moments, leaving Bilbo to brew in the distaste that is lying. He doesn’t know why but he does not wish to tell anyone of Gollum and the ring. No doubt one of the dwarves would attempt to claim it as their own and it is his ring, no one else’s.

“Were you injured in the fall?” Thorin asks, shaking Bilbo out of his thoughts.

“Just bit a bruised is all,” Bilbo says, another lie, though this one for a different reason. Thorin has been hurt far worse than him and even though his side hurts quite a lot, he doesn’t wish to deplete what precious little medicines survived. “I’m truly fine,” he adds when he sees Thorin eyeing him skeptically.

“If you are in need of pain relief, see to it that you inform Oin,” Thorin says, not unkindly. “It will feel worse tomorrow.”

“I imagine all of us will be in a worse state tomorrow, including yourself.”

“We cannot delay after today. The orcs are on wargs, they will catch up soon.”

“I know, I know,” Bilbo sighs, reaching over to pat Thorin’s arm. “Perhaps we’ll reach the forest of Mirkwood before they do. Gandalf said it would be harder for them to track us through it while on wargs.”

Thorin is staring at his arm quite as if he has never seen it before but his expression clears before Bilbo can wonder more about it. “Aye, the trees there are dense,” he says, looking around the company. “And elves do not take kindly to orcs trespassing on their lands.”

“What about us?” Bilbo asks. “They won’t think we’re trespassing, will they?”

“They might,” Thorin says, his eyes hooded and dark. “That is why we must take care and move swiftly through the forest. Having a wizard to guide us will have its benefits,” he admits, sounding reluctant to do so.

Bilbo smiles a little, looking around for Gandalf, unsurprised when he doesn’t see him anywhere. He has a habit of showing up in time for food, so Bilbo suspects he will be back soon. “It doesn’t seem likely that we’re going to get much rest between here and the mountain.”

“No,” Thorin agrees. “I admit I did not expect us to be hunted throughout our journey.”

Bilbo is taken by the sudden realization that he is having a civilized conversation with Thorin Oakenshield. They have not had a single one until yesterday. It’s a wonder what a single day’s time will do, he thinks, looking up at the clear blue sky above. Thorin has even sought out his company, something he has never done unless it was to bark orders, and Bilbo feels the same warmth filling his chest as when Thorin had embraced him.

“I can’t imagine you would have wanted to travel across Middle Earth had you known that Azog would be on your tail,” Bilbo says lightly.

“I would have removed his head from his foul neck before trying it,” Thorin says, low and filled with hate. “As I should have done the last time I saw him.”   
  
“He hasn’t shown his face in a long time,” Bilbo says. “I wonder if he feared that.”

Thorn smiles ruefully. “Fear is not what he feels when he looks at me. His hatred for the line of Durin has been festering all these years. He could not storm Ered Luin but he can hunt me in the wild. He has been biding his time.”

Bilbo shivers. “I have every confidence you’ll defeat him if the time comes, though I do hope they won’t catch up to us before we reach the safety of the mountain,” he says. “And that you won’t be so foolhardy next time.”

“Foolhardy?” Thorin repeats, sounding offended. “Have I been foolhardy, Master Baggins?”

“Well,” Bilbo says, feeling more daring than he has this entire journey. “You did rush the Pale Orc without help when he had the higher ground and nearly lost your head because of it.”

Thorin glares, his shoulders stiff. Then, in a rush, he sags, his shoulders relaxing and his lips twisting wryly. He inclines his head. “Perhaps it was not well thought out, but seeing him alive did not afford me much time to think,” he admits, glancing around, as if he is looking for anyone else that might be listening.

Bilbo wonders how it can be that he has been accepted into Thorin’s confidences. “It was all very noble and majestic,” he says, smiling when Thorin throws him a displeased look. “That’s the first time I’ve killed anything that wasn’t an unpleasant insect lurking in my smial. Even then, I normally take them into the garden.”

“The first kill can be satisfying and frightening both,” Thorin says, peering at Bilbo more intently. “How do you fare?”

“Well, like you, I didn’t have much time to think. Killing an orc seemed an easier choice than watching you lose your foolhardy head,” Bilbo says. “I don’t feel much of anything. Orcs are foul creatures… and if my great-great-great uncle Bandobras Took could knock a goblin chief’s head off, I might be able to manage stabbing one.”

Thorin looks amused. “So there are warriors in the Shire.”

“Occasionally. When the situations calls for it at any rate,” Bilbo says, smiling.

“I have underestimated Shirefolk,” Thorin announces, rather more loudly than he had been speaking before, and holds himself higher. “I have underestimated you, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo glances fleetingly toward the fire and sees that some of the dwarves are looking their way. “Oh, well… like I’ve said, I would have doubted myself as well,” he says hastily. “Don’t worry about it, Thorin.”

“I have wronged you and I wish to make amends,” Thorin says, steamrolling ahead without acknowledging Bilbo. “I would name you  _ khazâd-bâhel. _ Dwarf-friend, in the common tongue.”

The camp has gone eerily silent and when Bilbo looks at the others, he sees they are all staring at him, some looking proud, others with a solemnity that hints at something greater having just been declared. It is clearly something that has not been said lightly and Bilbo swallows, feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the high honor he has obviously been given. He looks at Thorin again, wondering how it is that they went from insults to ceremony in such a short period of time. But he will not look a gift horse in the mouth and smiles.

“Thank you,” he says with sincerity. “I am glad to be called a dwarf-friend. A… a  _ khazâd-bâhel. _ You are very kind, Thorin.”

Thorin inclines his head. “It was long overdue,” he says. He smiles suddenly and reaches over, clapping Bilbo soundly on the shoulder.

Pain shoots through Bilbo’s entire side and he gasps, tears springing to his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says hastily, his voice tight, attempting to head off the concern. “Just a bit bruised.”

Thorin has quickly pulled his hand back and is staring at Bilbo with surprise, which quickly melts into something much more akin to a storm cloud. “A bit bruised,” he repeats, sounding angry. “Oin! The burglar is injured!”

“Back to burglar?” Bilbo mumbles, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment at having been caught. But he watches Oin bustle over to them, the healer’s mouth twisted in annoyance.

“You should have told me before food was nearly served. Preferably when I was treating everyone else,” Oin grouses. “Where is the injury, laddie?”

“It’s just a bruise on my shoulder,” Bilbo says, sighing and standing when Oin gestures for him to. He shoots a quick glare at Thorin, who stands next to him, but Thorin doesn’t look too bothered.

“Off with your shirt,” Oin says, setting his bag on the log and beginning to dig through it.

Bilbo is tempted to ask for more privacy, as the other dwarves are still gazing over toward them, including Bombur, who is only absently stirring the stew. But he has long learned that privacy is almost impossible to come by on the road and modesty will get him nowhere with these dwarves. He sighs and takes off his jacket, minding the iris in his buttonhole, and unbuttons his shirt, laying them on the log.

Thorin hisses and some of the other dwarves around the camp groan.

“It’s just a bruise!” Bilbo protests, attempting to look at his shoulder.

Oin sighs. “A bruise that covers you from shoulder to hip, laddie, and it’s only starting to purple. How did you get this injury?”

Bilbo is aware that his entire left side hurts but it had mostly been concentrated around his shoulder. He’s a bit disgruntled to be put on display but his shoulder is still throbbing from Thorin’s friendly clap and he decides to stop being foolish and accept a poultice. “I fell,” he mumbles, seeing that Oin is watching him expectantly. “Quite a ways.”

“Does it hurt to breathe?” Oin demands, coming closer and prodding at Bilbo’s ribs.

“No, it only feels a bit tight,” Bilbo says, biting down on his tongue so he doesn’t wince at Oin’s rather rough handling. “I don’t think anything is broken.”

“Likely not,” Oin says, turning back to his bag and pulling out a poultice he had made earlier. “Did you lose consciousness?”

Bilbo hesitates and Oin sighs.

“Let me check your eyes, laddie,” he says gruffly, taking Bilbo’s cheeks between his warm hands, angling him toward the sun. After a moment of looking, he asks, “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Have confusing thoughts?”   
  
“No,” Bilbo answers honestly.   
  
“Ach, then no concussion is likely,” Oin says, letting Bilbo go.

Thorin sighs, sounding relieved. “You should have told us sooner,” he says, his tone harsh but something soft in his eyes. “You have not needed to be in such pain. It appears I am not the only foolhardy one of this company.”   
  
Bilbo huffs a little but must concede the point. “I didn’t want to take any medicine if someone needed it more,” he says, eyeing Thorin.

“There’s enough for all of us, laddie,” Oin says, beginning to apply the poultice without so much as a by-your-leave.

It’s cool to the touch and Bilbo winces as his bruise is massaged but Oin makes quick work of it. Thorin continues to hover nearby, watching Oin work, his brow furrowed. He looks worried, Bilbo thinks, and feels a flutter in his stomach at the thought.

Once Oin is finished, Bilbo quickly puts his clothes back on, straightening himself out. “Thank you, Oin,” he says politely.

Oin appears to not have heard him as he is already bustling back toward the fire and the meal that Bombur is ready to serve.

The company gathers around, collecting bowls and spoons, and let Bombur ladle thick, hearty stew into them. It smells delicious and is most definitely a hard-won meal. The dwarves are quick and orderly about receiving their portions but begin to eat as sloppily as they always do once they have regained their seats. Gandalf shows up, as expected, and has his own bowl filled, sending a wink Bilbo’s way, for a reason he can’t discern.

Bilbo collects his meal and returns to the log, sitting carefully against it and beginning to eat with more care than the others, wanting to savor his first meal in almost two days. He doesn’t expect Thorin to sit next to him, his movements still slow and measured.

What a sight they must make, moving like they’re ancient and barely able to stand for too long without their various aches and pains bothering them.

Thorin doesn’t say anything, instead eating his meal nearly as slowly as Bilbo, and they sit in a fairly comfortable silence. Until Bilbo’s curiosity gets the better of him anyway.

_ “Khazâd-bâhel,” _ Bilbo says. “Am I saying it correctly?”

“Aye, though your accent is too soft,” Thorin says, looking at Bilbo. “Khuzdul comes from low in the chest, not high in the throat like the elves’ flowery drivel.”

Bilbo laughs a little, eating a spoonful of stew. “I’m fluent in Sindarin, you know,” he says, smiling at Thorin.

“As am I,” Thorin says. “But it is still drivel.”

“You are?” Bilbo asks in surprise, ignoring Thorin’s comment. “Truly?”

“I was once a prince of Erebor, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, his tone surprisingly patient. “Our neighboring kingdoms were Dale, of men, and the Greenwood, of elves. I had to learn their cultures and their languages when I was a lad to be prepared for when I would be king.”

Bilbo nods. “Of course,” he says, thinking. “Are Fili and Kili fluent as well?”

“We did not teach them in the way that I was taught but they can both carry a passable conversation,” Thorin says. “There are not many elves near Ered Luin and taking back Erebor was only a passing fancy when they were lads.”

“Now I suppose they’ll have lessons again when you retake the mountain,” Bilbo says, looking at Fili and Kili, who are talking with Ori and Nori and laughing uproariously at whatever is being said.

“When Erebor has been rebuilt they will go back to their lessons as princes,” Thorin agrees, sounding resigned. “They will not be happy about it but they have much to learn.”

Bilbo imagines Thorin was never particularly happy about his lessons when he was younger either. He can only imagine all the diplomacy he had to learn… even perhaps royal table manners. It all seems very boring when Bilbo thinks about it and he feels a sympathy for these royal dwarves. The burden of ruling will fall upon Fili especially and Bilbo feels a surge of fondness for the young dwarf.

“They’ll be alright once they get used to it,” Bilbo says, taking another bite of stew. “Teach me another Khuzdul word.”

Thorin glances at him, arching an eyebrow. “And why should I do that?”

Bilbo waves his spoon around. “Because it’s a fascinating language and I’m eager to hear more of it. Please?”

Thorin turns back to his bowl, a curious red stain to his cheeks. “It is a secret language,” he mutters, stuffing stew into his mouth. “None but dwarves can learn it.”

“I’m not asking to learn it,” Bilbo protests. “Only a few words. I’m a dwarf-friend, aren’t I? Surely exceptions can be made.”

“Abusing our friendship already, Master Baggins?” Thorin asks, sounding amused. “Even  _ khazâd-bâhel _ cannot learn our language.”

“And what would I even do with the knowledge of a few words? Attempt to overthrow Erebor?” Bilbo asks, finishing his stew, setting his bowl aside. He feels more energetic now that he has gotten food in his belly. “What’s the harm in knowing the bare minimum?”

Thorin shifts, looking between his bowl and Bilbo. “It is secret,” he says again, though this time it is not as gruff. “Balin would have my beard.”

“But he won’t have mine, seeing as I don’t have one, and he doesn’t have to know,” Bilbo says. “Come on, just a few words.”

Thorin finishes his stew, sighing heavily as he puts his bowl on the log. “Is this how you learned Sindarin? Demanding it of the elves?”

“They keep their language in books, you know. Makes it easier for everyone else to learn.”

“Khuzdul is too harsh for such a softly-spoken creature.”

“You have yet to give me a chance. Two words isn’t indicative of how I would speak the rest of the language.”

“I would argue that it is.”

_ “Khazâd-bâhel,” _ Bilbo growls, lowering his voice and attempting to speak from his chest like Thorin had said.

Thorin smiles, wide and true, shaking his head. “You would never speak it like a dwarf,” he says. “Perhaps… a few words. But you must not tell Balin.”

Bilbo glances across the fire. “He seems rather taken with Dori’s company at present,” he says, looking back at Thorin. “What’s the word for beard?”   
  
Thorin chuckles, a rather beautiful sound, to Bilbo’s ears. “That is your first query?” he asks. “It is  _ targ.” _

_ “Targ,” _ Bilbo repeats, rolling the word around his tongue.  _ “Targ,” _ he repeats, looking at Thorin, who nods. “Interesting. You lot have very fine beards.”

“Aye, most of us,” Thorin says, reaching up to scratch lightly at his own.  _ “Targel. _ Beard of all beards.”

Bilbo laughs a little. “Who would that best describe in the company?”

“Gloin,” Thorin says without hesitation. “He has a beard many of us aspire to one day grow. Should you wish to be in his good graces, compliment his beard and his family.”

“Noted,” Bilbo says with a smile, looking around the company. “What’s the word for company?”

_ “Bahân,” _ Thorin says, the Khuzdul coming easily from him.

Bilbo repeats it and they fall into a routine, Bilbo asking for words in Khuzdul and Thorin offering some of his own. He even deigns to teach Bilbo a few phrases, including dwarven war cries  _ (Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!) _ and some basic questions about food and drink being served, what the weather is like. Bilbo would write it down if he had the parchment to do so but when he mentions that to Thorin, he says he would forbid it, just in case Balin or the others were to notice. Bilbo wonders if he’s exaggerating the care the other dwarves would have about him learning some Khuzdul but decides he’d rather not risk knowing.

Soon Bilbo realizes that late afternoon is upon them and that time has moved quickly while he was conversing with Thorin. Thorin seems to be as surprised by it as Bilbo but he leaves to speak with Gandalf after a while and Bilbo reflects on their conversation. It had been entirely pleasant speaking with Thorin, who is intelligent and charming in his own right. Being the leader of the company and none too fond of Bilbo through their first few months of the journey had hidden that from Bilbo. He finds himself aching for more of Thorin’s company but doesn’t think he should push too far, while their friendship is so brand new.

He dozes a bit to catch up on rest while the day is pleasantly warm, trying not to think about the cool nights without a bedroll. Most of the company lost theirs as well and Bilbo wonders how they are going to survive the rest of the way to the mountain without vital supplies. Perhaps there is a town of men ahead and they can purchase supplies before their rations dwindle. Bilbo suspects that is what Thorin is speaking with Gandalf about but he’s much too tired to join their conversation.

Bilbo wakes only when dinner is served, another rabbit stew, and happily takes his portion back to his log. Bofur and Bifur join him for conversation, with some light teasing on Bofur’s part about how long he and Thorin had been talking. Bilbo takes it all in stride, too pleased by that turn of events to be embarrassed by it.

The company’s spirits are higher than they have been in some weeks and Bilbo enjoys their stories and their antics for the rest of the evening. He finds that he likes all of these dwarves, that he has grown fond of them, and finally feels as if his place within the company has been cemented. He has friends who look out for him, who wish for him to join their song, and a sense of rightness fills the hole in his heart that has been there since his parents died. It feels like  _ belonging _ somewhere and Bilbo will forever be grateful to these dwarves for that.

And when he lies down for sleep that night, shivering and cursing the solid ground, he finds himself breathless when Thorin removes his coat and offers it to Bilbo. He won’t hear any protests and, reaching down, lays the coat over Bilbo. Thorin cups his hand over the iris in Bilbo's buttonhole so as not to disturb it. Once it is safe he carefully moves his hand away with a brush against Bilbo's shoulder.

_ “Maizlifî,” _ he says, his voice low. “Sleep, Master Baggins, and be well.”

So Bilbo does, curled up in pleasant warmth, with Thorin’s smell surrounding him, pipe-weed smoke and leather and oil.

And when they set out at dawn to begin traveling toward the forest, Thorin walks by his side and murmurs in Khuzdul, their arms brushing together. Bilbo feels it's the start of something wonderful, and despite his numerous pains and fears he walks on with a smile, lost in the voice of Thorin Oakenshield.

**Author's Note:**

> For [Mim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimmuszh/pseuds/mimmuszh)!
> 
> A huge thank you as always to my lovely beta [telltalelily](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/telltalelily) for her amazing work and help with the khuzdul. I'd have gotten nowhere without her!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please remember to leave kudos and a comment! Thank you!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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